Consulting Aurors Need Their Healers
by YouCareSoMuch
Summary: A sequel to The Consulting Auror and His Healer, my series of oneshots. I guess you don't really need to read the oneshots to understand this one, but you should. I own nothing.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note: I didn't want to include this on my series of Potterlock oneshots because the oneshots are about their time at Hogwarts and this story is almost a year after Hogwarts, so… If all goes well this will be a multi-chapter fic. I'm working on it. Kinda. I have ideas. Long author's note, sorry! I own nothing!**

"Why is this flat you found perfect again?" John asked Sherlock as he packed up the dishes in the cabinet.

"The landlady is a witch." Sherlock said, sitting on the sofa with his hands steepled under his chin and his eyes closed, his typical pose. He hadn't offered to help with the packing at all.

John finished wrapping the last mug in bubble wrap and placed it in the cardboard box. He turned to look at Sherlock, "That's it? That's the only reason I'm packing up my life and moving to Baker Street?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and glanced at John. "You're hardly packing up your life, you've barely lived in this dingy place two years and all you possess are books and dishes. Anyway, the landlady is giving us a special rate because I ensured her husband's execution a few months back. She was quite grateful."

"Grateful her husband was executed?" John asked, bewildered.

"Yes." Sherlock said laconically.

John decided not to ask. "Well, I guess that's good; cheaper is always better. Is it a nice flat?"

"We're going to see it this afternoon, John."

"Well, if it's infested with cockroaches, or—or it has faulty wiring I'd rather not waste the trip, so let me know now if it's gross or something."

"Would I consider renting a defective flat?" Sherlock asked, an eyebrow raised.

John chuckled, "No, I guess not."

The end of their last year at Hogwarts was nearly eight months ago. John was simultaneously stressed to the breaking point and having the time of his life in his Muggle classes at St. Bart's Hospital, and Sherlock had spent the last several months attempting to be accepted as a consultant in the Auror department of the Ministry. Greg Lestrade was working as an intern in the Auror office and he visited them often to complain about the drudgery of the job.

Sherlock was getting a few cases from a website John had helped him set up that Sherlock called The Science of Deduction (Sherlock's mind had nearly exploded upon being introduced to the internet), but these cases were the crimes of Muggles, and Sherlock wanted to solve cases with a bit more intrigue.

For the last couple of weeks, Sherlock had been trying to convince John to get a flat share. He had taken it upon himself to find a flat that would be perfect for the both of them, and John had let him, because he'd never seen Sherlock so enthusiastic over something that wasn't Potions or his future career as a consulting Auror.

Now that Sherlock had found them a flat, John was more than ready to pack up and leave his dreary apartment.

John summoned the packing tape with a muttered "Accio" and taped closed the box in front of him.

"Alright, That was the last box. Thanks for all the help, Sherlock." John said sarcastically.

"Finally." Sherlock said, leaping off of the sofa. "Let's go."

"What's the address?"

"221b Baker Street." Sherlock said.

"Right."

As one, they turned on the spot, apparating to just a few feet from the front door of the flat.

"Nice area." John remarked, looking around.

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "Not far from both the Ministry of Magic and Bart's hospital."

When they rang the doorbell, it was promptly answered by an older woman in lavender robes.

"Sherlock! How nice to see you again!" The woman said, beaming.

Sherlock smiled tightly, "Mrs. Hudson, this is my friend, John." He said, gesturing to John. "John, Mrs. Hudson."

John smiled, stepping forward to shake Mrs. Hudson's hand.

"Oh, lovely. You two will be renting together?"

"Yes." Sherlock said.

"Wonderful." Mrs. Hudson's smile got impossibly wider, "How long have the two of you been together?"

John's smile faded, "Oh, we're not—I mean, it's not like that. We're not together. Just friends."

Looking a trifle disappointed, Mrs. Hudson let them in the flat, leading them up a set of stairs to the living area.

Two weeks later they had moved in and John already viewed 221b as home. Sherlock seemed to like the flat as well. He spent most of his time in the kitchen, which he had turned into a Potions laboratory. John didn't mind as long as Sherlock cleared up afterward and he told Sherlock if any Potion of ill or embarrassing effect was slipped into John's food, John would terminate the experiments.

All in all, sharing a flat with Sherlock wasn't all that difficult. John already knew Sherlock's eccentricities so well from seven years of friendship at Hogwarts that nothing could surprise him anymore.

Mrs. Hudson had warmed to the two of them quickly. She checked on them daily, bringing tea and a wide smile.

"Hello boys! I made muffins, I thought you might enjoy them." Mrs. Hudson said, bustling upstairs to their flat levitating a tray of tea and the aforementioned muffins in front of her.

John was perusing the Daily Prophet in an effort to avoid the studying he had to do for class and Sherlock was busy creating something smelly in his cauldron when their landlady set the tray down on the table with a flick of her wand.

"Thanks, Mrs. Hudson." John said, looking up from the paper with a smile.

"Oh, it's no problem at all, dear." Mrs. Hudson was watching Sherlock add ingredients to his cauldron with some concern.

John got up and helped himself to a muffin, looking around the flat as he tore off a piece. The main living area of the flat was filled with clutter: many cauldrons, numberless books on Muggle topics as well as magical topics, quills and inkwells on every surface, and a human skull that Sherlock had never explained the significance of satisfactorily.

It gave John ineffable satisfaction to be able to call someplace his own. He had no way of knowing then that he and Sherlock would call Baker Street Home for many years to come.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: This chapter is about seven years after the first one. Enough time for John to complete medical school and enlist in the army. Tell me what you think! I don't own anything.**

John had one fear when he got the letter informing him he was going to be shipped out to Afghanistan soon, and it wasn't fear of the dangerous war zone he would soon be a part of. He was afraid of having to break the news to Sherlock. Sherlock was quite averse to John's entrance into the British army. When he heard that John had enlisted, Sherlock hadn't talked to John for four days, only speaking again when Greg Lestrade came from the Auror office bringing news that some wizard was going on a mad Muggle hunt and no one knew how he had managed to kill ten Muggles in ten days with no clues as to his identity left behind. After he solved this case, Sherlock was loathe to even mention John's enlistment.

Greg passing all of the tests and becoming an official member of the Auror department two years ago brought Sherlock significantly more cases to test his skills on. Greg had no qualms about coming to Sherlock when he was stumped on a case, so Sherlock spent much less time being bored and much more time catching dark wizards and fulfilling his dream of becoming a consulting Auror.

John joined Sherlock on some of these cases for two reasons: Sherlock loved to show off, and John was intrigued by the mysteries, not to mention addicted to the adrenaline rush he got when dueling with a rogue wizard.

This constant flow of cases coming from Greg in the Auror department gave John the comfort of knowing that while John was in Afghanistan, Sherlock would be kept busy. So, that was one less thing to worry about.

Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson had become like family to John. In fact, they were his only family, for his mother had died in a car crash three years ago and his father had passed as well.

John sat in his armchair on the day he got the letter from the British army and wondered how he was going to tell Sherlock and Mrs. Hudson that he would be leaving for Afghanistan soon.

As if summoned by this thought, Mrs. Hudson announced her entrance into the living area of 221b with a "Hello, boys!" and proceeded to the kitchen, presumably to see if Sherlock had made a mess of the table she had just cleaned that morning.

"No matter how many times I clean this kitchen, Sherlock always finds a new Potion to dirty up the place again." Mrs. Hudson tutted, walking around the kitchen and using various cleaning spells to make the kitchen habitable once more.

John figured there was no time like the present. Before he could lose his nerve, he stood up, letter in hand, and walked into the kitchen.

"Mrs. Hudson, do you remember when I enlisted in the Muggle army a while ago?"

Mrs. Hudson was inspecting some gunk in one of Sherlock's cauldrons, but she looked up when John spoke.

"Yes, I remember how worried I was when you told me. Scourgify!" Mrs. Hudson pointed her wand at the filthy cauldron and it was once again pristine.

John smiled weakly. "I have to prepare to leave for Afghanistan in three weeks." He said, as he couldn't stand beating around the bush any longer.

Mrs. Hudson dropped the cauldron. It made a bang that seemed very loud in the otherwise silent room.

"Oh, John, really?" She sounded simultaneously terrified and proud.

"Yeah." John said, supplementing his affirmation with a nod.

Mrs. Hudson took two steps toward John and enveloped him in a tight hug. "You'll make a wonderful army Healer, John."

John chuckled and returned the embrace. "Muggles say doctor, not Healer."

The landlady released him and smiled. "Yes, of course. A doctor."

At that moment they heard the front door open and Sherlock's quick steps on the stairs.

"John?" They heard him call.

Mrs. Hudson put a hand to her mouth in sudden realization. "How are you going to tell Sherlock?" She whispered to John so Sherlock wouldn't hear.

John whispered back, "I was just wondering that same thing."

"John?" Sherlock called again, and they heard him approach the kitchen.

"Right here, Sherlock." John called back. John remembered the first time he told Sherlock his plans to join the Muggle army, back in their fifth year at Hogwarts, when Sherlock had practically thrown a fit. Greg had said it was because Sherlock cared about him. Well, John knew that by now. He just hoped Sherlock would know by now that his friendship was reciprocated and that John wasn't becoming an army doctor to get himself killed.

"The killer made a mistake. He left his wand at the crime scene. He can't apparate without his wand and he doesn't trust Muggle transportation, he can't go far." Sherlock said, entering the kitchen. He narrowed his eyes at the way Mrs. Hudson and John were standing there silently, and as his eyes came to rest on the letter in John's hand, realization seemed to pass over his face.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" He said, and he sounded almost dejected.

John took a deep breath, "Afghanistan. Don't be like this, Sherlock. Knowing of your disapproval will make leaving harder." He said.

Sherlock remained silent. Mrs. Hudson looked at the two of them and bit her lip.. "Well… I'll just let the two of you work this out." She said, scurrying downstairs to her flat as though retreating from a battle.

"My official job is a combat doctor. I come in when the fighting is over, technically." John said, smiling at Sherlock who was still stoic.

Sherlock stared at John for a moment, "I don't have friends, John." He muttered, "I've only had one for more than ten years."

"I know." John said, looking down at his feet. They never talked about emotions so this conversation was one John had been dreading.

"I can't—I don't want you to…" Sherlock faltered and ran a frustrated hand through his hair.

"I will come back—"

"Shut up. Don't make promises you can't keep. Muggles with guns can't be reasoned with, John."

"Yes, well, I'll have my wand. Muggles with guns don't worry me."

For the first time, Sherlock smiled. "That's such a Gryffindor thing to say." Sherlock said.

John laughed. That quip from Sherlock sounded like approval, and John suddenly felt a lot better about going to Afghanistan.


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: If you like it, give me love, please! Tell me what you like, what you don't like… I own nothing!**

The two weeks John had until he had to leave for Afghanistan passed very quickly. Though Sherlock had reluctantly accepted John's impending departure, he still had many questions about the matter. For example, Sherlock was flummoxed when John mentioned he would be taking a plane to his army base and not apparating.

"Why on earth are you going the Muggle route?" Sherlock asked, soon after John made an off-hand comment about when he would be catching his plane.

"My commanding officer is expecting me to arrive after a ten hour flight; I will have a significant amount of explaining to do if I materialize out of nowhere on the Afghan base." John said, scanning a list he had made of things to pack, making sure he hadn't forgotten anything.

Sherlock grumbled to himself.

John realized he hadn't packed a comb and picked up his wand to Summon one. "And, anyway, I'm going to be living almost completely as a Muggle in Afghanistan, so it makes sense to start my journey the Muggle way." John caught the comb speeding toward him with the skill he acquired from being a seeker for seven years.

When John turned around, Sherlock was standing right behind him, glowering at John.

John stepped backward. "Jesus, Sherlock, you're like a bloody ninja." He said, referring to Sherlock's skill at moving impossibly quietly and quickly. "If I didn't know better, I'd think you apparated." He said, putting the comb in the duffel bag in front of him.

"What do you mean you'll be living like a Muggle? You said you would bring your wand. You said you would have an advantage over the Muggles trying to kill you." Sherlock hissed, still glaring at John, though John could see underlying concern rather than malice in Sherlock's blue-green eyes.

John assumed a reassuring expression, "I'll have my wand with me and I'll be protected. But, I won't use magic unless I really need to. Only if I'm in danger. I didn't go to medical school for nothing; I'll be taking care of the wounded with Muggle medicine, not my skills as a Healer." John explained.

"If a man was dying in the field, you wouldn't use magic as a last resort to save his life?" Sherlock said, a skeptical look on his face. Sometimes John thought that Sherlock knew John better than he knew himself.

"I guess I would." John said. "But only as a last resort. Like I said, I'm only using magic for emergencies."

"How am I to contact you?" Sherlock asked, obviously under the impression that sending letters by owl mail would count as using magic.

"Muggle post services are just as good as owl post, Sherlock."

Sherlock scoffed and John responded to Sherlock's disdain with, "It's true! It's not like owls are known for their speed, and having an owl fly back and forth from Afghanistan to London every time you have a case you want to discuss with me would be animal abuse."

Sherlock migrated to the sofa, seemingly in defeat. John smiled and checked his list again, knowing it killed Sherlock to have all of his arguments beaten down.

Sherlock spoke up again, slouched on the sofa with his long legs stretched out in front of him, not long later. "What if I were to have an emergency and needed to contact you immediately? It would be quite easy to cast a Patronus and send it to you with my message, but with your 'living like a Muggle' rule, Patronuses would be off-limits." There was a distinct pout in Sherlock's voice.

"Even if I didn't have that rule, I wouldn't want a swarm of luminescent bees following me everywhere. Knowing you, you'd classify being out of milk as an emergency, and I'd be left trying to explain why a swarm of bees appeared and told me I need to buy milk." John said.

Sherlock chuckled despite himself.

Mrs. Hudson insisted on throwing a dinner party for John the night before he was due to leave. John didn't know of anyone he would care to invite besides Greg, so the event couldn't really be called a party. John, Sherlock, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg enjoyed the bittersweet evening all the same. Mrs. Hudson teared up several times and all Greg could say was "Afghanistan. Man, that's insane." With an accompanying shake of the head. Sherlock was sulky—even more so than usual.

Mycroft showed up when the four of them were eating a cake Mrs. Hudson had made for the occasion, saying that he wanted a private word with his brother. Sherlock didn't look very happy about it, but, to be fair, he was rarely happy about anything when his brother was involved. Sherlock got rid of Mycroft fairly quickly, coming back to the table with a scowl on his face.

Mycroft stopped at the door and looked at Sherlock. "You have to be prepared, Sherlock." Mycroft said.

Sherlock ignored him, stabbing at his piece of cake with venom. Mycroft gave John a tight smile. "John, I wish you luck. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade." He nodded to the both of them, and with a whoosh of his cloak, he apparated.

John looked at Sherlock, who was scraping the frosting off of his cake. "What was that about?" John asked.

"Mycroft loves to meddle in my affairs." Sherlock muttered. John let the subject drop.

Mrs. Hudson didn't come to see John off, saying she would get too emotional. She did hug him tightly for almost two minutes before John left, though.

"Take care of yourself, be safe. Remember to bring your wand with you everywhere." Mrs. Hudson said after she released him, playing the role of a doting mother hen.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson." John said, smiling.

Sherlock entered the room, wand in hand. "You ready, Sherlock?" John asked his friend.

"Yes, yes, let's go." Sherlock said.

Mrs. Hudson conjured a handkerchief out of nowhere to wipe her leaking eyes. "Oh, Sherlock, be nice to John. You're going to miss him." She said.

John knew that Sherlock would never admit to Mrs. Hudson's claim, so he didn't acknowledge it. "Goodbye, Mrs. Hudson, I'll write at least once a month, and I'll see you around Christmastime, when I get leave to come home." John said, prompting Mrs. Hudson to give him one last hug.

John released himself from Mrs. Hudson's clutches, grabbed his bags, and he and Sherlock apparated as one.

At the moment of departure, John couldn't think of anything to say. Neither, it seemed, could Sherlock. They stood side by side, looking at John's plane and not speaking.

"I will miss you, John." Sherlock said abruptly. His face was impassive, as it often was in emotional situations.

"Yeah, I'll…I'll miss you, too. Greg will keep you busy. You won't even realize I'm gone." John laughed. "When I was in basic training you talked to me like I was in the flat with you half the time."

"Yes, but when you were in basic training you weren't in constant danger." Sherlock said, not looking at John.

John shook his head, and was silent for a minute. Then, he turned and put a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. Sherlock looked up. "I _am_ coming home. Stop worrying."

Sherlock nodded, and then surprised John by hugging him briefly. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock as well, but Sherlock pulled away as abruptly as he had initiated the hug.

"I'll write you." Sherlock said, then he apparated with a loud crack.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note: Letters back and forth from John to Sherlock while John is in Afghanistan. I'd love to get some feedback in the form of reviews! Tell me what you think! I own nothing.**

Dear Sherlock,

It's hard to get used to life here. The dry desert heat of Afghanistan couldn't be more different than rainy London. I miss it there already. Yes, sentiment, I know, but its hard not to miss the place I've lived my whole life.

It's also hard to get used to life without magic. It was my choice to live like a Muggle, but it's still hard breaking the habit of casting a spell for every simple task. There are two other wizards in my outfit. One of them went to Hogwarts, his name is Bill Murray. I vaguely remember him, he was in year one when we were in year four. The other, an American, went to the North American school of witchcraft and wizardry (I can't remember that school's name for the life of me). How's life back at Baker Street? Is Greg giving you a lot of cases to work on? Write back soon, it's rather boring here at times.

John

Dear John,

My days creep by in mind-numbingly slow fashion while I wait for something to distract me from my boredom. Lestrade (are you sure his first name is 'Greg'?) brings cases now and then; they are becoming increasingly unimaginative. There are two new Aurors in the Magical Law Enforcement department at the Ministry, both of whom I never imagined would amount to anything. However did Anderson, that idiotic excuse for a wizard, pass the tests to become an Auror? Donovan is a tad more intelligent than her counterpart, but even so, I did not classify her as Auror material. Due to the lack of satisfying wizard crimes, I've taken to visiting Scotland Yard and aiding the detectives there, as I did before Lestrade worked in the Auror department. Muggle cases are better than nothing. Have you been keeping your wand with you?

Sherlock

Dear Sherlock,

That first sentence of your last letter was very melodramatic, even for you. Jesus, both Anderson and Donovan are Aurors now? Are they giving you a hard time? Sorry about your lack of interesting cases. Are you destroying every item in our flat with various hexes to get rid of the boredom? To answer your question, yes, I've been carrying my wand with me everywhere in case of emergencies. I haven't used magic yet. Bill Murray, the wizard from Hogwarts in my outfit, uses magic all the time—out of view of Muggles, of course. I don't know how the rest of the outfit hasn't noticed by now. Bill replenishes his ammo supply out on the field with magic; the other soldiers just think he is careful not to waste bullets, but I've seen him multiply his stock. He also covertly helps protect our outfit from dust storms with a Shield charm around our tent. He was as confused as you were when I told him I'm not going to use magic in Afghanistan. He keeps daring me to break my own rule by doing small magic, like attempting to make the awful army food taste better, or tying one of the soldiers' shoelaces into a big knot. Anyway, I hope you and Mrs. Hudson are doing alright.

John

Dear John,

I've just solved a case that was a welcome change from the uninspired drudgery that makes up the majority of what Lestrade offers. I won't explain the whole case as I don't have the patience to write out every detail and I am running out of ink. In short, the murderer was a Parselmouth who essentially used a snake as a murder weapon. Through snake language, the murderer would convince the snake to bite each victim so that they died a very slow, painful death due to the snake's poisonous venom. Lestrade told me I was "indecently happy" over this case, but I was merely enthusiastic about the ingenuity of it all. There is, after all, a difference between expressing joy over a gruesome death, and enjoying the thrill of solving a mystery. This is a distinction that Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade would do well to understand. Though the three of them most likely believe I am a psychopath, that belief hasn't stopped them from consulting me when they are out of their depth, so what they think of me is a moot point. The opinions of others have never bothered me, as you know. Your new best friend Bill Murray was a Hufflepuff at Hogwarts, yes? You wrote that he will cast a Shield charm to protect against dust storms, and this action reveals a thoughtful kindness inherent in Hufflepuffs. In addition, he seems intent on being known as a nice, trustworthy person through helpful actions and friendly conversation. Qualities sure to be found in the house of the badger.

Sherlock

Dear Sherlock,

You're not a psychopath or a sociopath. That case sounds crazy, I can see why you liked it. Did Anderson, Donovan, and Lestrade not notice the snake bite wounds on the victims? Or did the murderer perform a bit of clever magic so that the puncture wounds didn't show? That would be clever. It's a little concerning that I'm beginning to think like a dark wizard. I blame you. You didn't have to write that you were running out of ink, because I can tell, based on what you've taught me about analyzing handwriting and quill markings. Your ink is uneven in many places, and I can tell you've had to dip your quill several times because of the inconsistent thickness of the ink in each word. How'd I do? I'd like to think I've learned a lot after almost fifteen years of knowing you. Speaking of how long we've known each other, what's with that "your new best friend" crap you wrote in your last letter? Do you honestly think Bill is my best friend? For a genius, Sherlock, you can really be an idiot sometimes. I've been saying that for more than a decade. Bill is my friend, not my best friend. And, you were right, he is a Hufflepuff. He was astonished when I told him you guessed—sorry, _deduced—_ that he was a Hufflepuff with the minimal information I had put in my letter to you. Don't panic, but I might not be able to write for a little bit. We're going off base for a couple weeks on a scouting mission. I'll write as soon as I can.

John


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: All I know about the army, I've learned from MASH, an army TV show from the '70s. Any mistakes are my own. Tell me what you think! Reviews fill my days normally filled with college stress and self-doubt with joy. I own NOTHING.**

The first letter that Greg received from John from Afghanistan contained the best news Greg had heard in weeks. John was coming home for his Christmas leave a week early. Greg had immediately focused on the sentence telling the good news when he opened the letter, but now he took in the rest. John wrote that his unit had just been assigned another medic, so John was bowing out for the holidays a week early now that his unit had additional medical help.

Greg, alone in his office, read the next sentence under his breath. "Don't tell Sherlock yet, I want to surprise him and Mrs. Hudson", John had written. Greg looked up from the letter. How on earth was he supposed to keep John's impending homecoming a secret from Sherlock Holmes, a man who was impossible to keep secrets from?

The stress of keeping something of importance from Sherlock aside, Greg felt nothing but relief for John's coming arrival. Sherlock hadn't necessarily been awful during these last eight months, but he hadn't been great. Sherlock had been...prickly. That was the only word for it. Prickly and almost sad, Greg thought. There was no doubt in anyone's mind that Sherlock missed his friend. He still, occasionally, turned to the place where John would've stood and asked a question, or made a comment directed to John, only to blink and sigh when he saw empty space where John was supposed to be. John had a way of calming Sherlock down, and acting as a buffer for Sherlock's worst tendencies.

Greg had long been of the opinion that letters from John were nothing short of lifelines to Sherlock.

As if summoned by the thought, with a large crack, Sherlock apparated into Greg's office.

Greg stuffed John's letter back into the envelope and turned the envelope over so the name couldn't be seen. Thankfully, because Sherlock's mind was completely invested in the current case, he didn't notice Greg's hasty and suspicious action.

"Lestrade, he's luring his victims with Amortentia." Sherlock said without preamble.

Greg just looked at him for a minute, then he figured he should respond. "How do you know?"

Sherlock waved an impatient hand. "It's stupidly simple, I should have realized it immediately. All of the victims had looks of contentment and bliss on their faces. Not to mention the fact that there was no sign of a struggle in any of the murders. The murderer used an Amortentia potion to make his victims let their guard down—and their wands down—and then used the Killing curse."

Greg struggled to remember exactly what the Amortentia potion was. He vaguely remembered from Potions class years and years ago that Amortentia was a particularly potent love potion.

"Okay." Greg said, "Do you know what his next move is gonna be?"

" _Her_ next move, Graham, let's not stereotype dark wizards. The rather romantic method of murder points to a woman."

"Right." Greg had given up on trying to remind Sherlock what his name was.

For the rest of that day, Greg engrossed himself in the case and forgot about John's letter. Once the murderer was deprived of her wand and placed in a holding cell, and Greg finally had a chance to relax, he remembered that John would be coming back to London soon, and Sherlock didn't know. Greg felt strangely pleased that the tables were turned and he knew about something before Sherlock.

Greg read the letter for the third time. He had to meet John at the airport in two days. He could keep this a secret for two days, right?

Keeping the secret was easier than Greg thought it would be. Sherlock didn't show up to the Ministry during that 48 hour period and Greg felt a wave of relief wash over him when the day came to pick up John from the airport and Sherlock was none the wiser.

After Greg had been waiting at the airport for about an hour, John approached him with closely shaven hair, as per army regulations, wearing his army fatigues, and sporting a black eye.

Despite his injury that looked painful, John was beaming as he greeted Greg with a tight hug.

"Hey, Greg, good to see you." John said.

Greg couldn't help smiling as well, as he returned the hug, clapping John on the shoulder.

"Good to see you too, mate!" Greg said as John released him and stepped back, still beaming.

"What happened there?" Greg asked, pointing to John's black eye. "That looks like it hurts."

John shrugged, and used the hand not holding his large duffel bag to prod at his eye, as if gauging if it would hurt if he touched it.

"I was punched by a very drunk, and very angry man in my unit. It was nothing personal; his girlfriend had broken up with him through a letter. He apologized when he sobered up."

Greg winced in sympathy. "I'd offer to fix it with magic but I don't know any spells to heal bruising."

"That's alright. I do. I haven't had a chance to fix it myself 'cause I've been surrounded by Muggles."

"And you've sworn off magic for the duration of your army career." Greg added, smirking.

John chuckled. "Yeah, That too."

"Would you be averse to apparating to get out of here?" Greg asked, not wanting to pay for cab fare or take the tube.

"God, no. I haven't apparated in ages. It'll be a welcome change from walking or driving everywhere. Before we go I have to ask if you told anyone else I was coming home." John said, looking at Greg with a twinkle of mischief in his eyes.

Greg grinned. "Not a soul. It wasn't even hard keeping the news from Mr. Consulting Auror himself."

John returned the grin. "Great. Let's go surprise him and Mrs. Hudson."

They exited the airport on foot, and once they were a sufficient distance away and hidden from Muggle passerby, they turned on the spot to apparate to 221b Baker Street.

John gave an audible sigh of satisfaction when they appeared on the doorstep of the flat. He was gazing at the black door to 221b with something like contentment.

"I hope Mrs. Hudson doesn't have a heart attack." Greg said, as John rang the doorbell.

John rolled his eyes. "She's a little sturdier than that, Greg."

At that moment, the door opened revealing Mrs. Hudson, who took one look at John in his army fatigues and screamed in what Greg hoped was joy.

"John! Oh, what a surprise!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed.

John laughed as Mrs. Hudson pulled him in for a tight hug. Mrs. Hudson released him after a little bit, she had tears in her eyes. "I thought you were coming home next week!"

"I decided to come early." John said simply.

"What happened to your eye?" Mrs. Hudson said, looking at John's black eye with motherly concern.

John waved an airy hand. "Angry soldier. Nothing to worry about."

Greg noticed that John was looking over Mrs. Hudson's shoulder covertly, most likely watching for the appearance of one Sherlock Holmes.

Mrs. Hudson noticed John's wandering eyes. "Sherlock went out." She said. "Oh, he'll be so pleased to see you!"

Greg cut in, "Yeah, maybe he'll smile again and lighten up on the hostility he's been carrying around for months."

John grimaced. "Has he been that bad?" he asked.

Greg shrugged. "He hasn't been a ray of sunshine."

They heard a large crack from upstairs, followed by a baritone voice shouting, "Mrs. Hudson! Where's my skull?"

The three of them on the first floor of the flat grinned at the same time.

"I didn't touch your skull, dear. It should still be on the mantelpiece." Mrs. Hudson said. "Uh, Sherlock, there's someone here to see you."

Amid crashes and rustles of paper, presumably the sounds of Sherlock looking for his skull, they heard Sherlock say, "I'm not taking clients today. Send whoever it is away."

Greg and John were laughing silently.

"I think you'll want to meet with this man. He says you know him." Mrs. Hudson replied, winking at Greg and John.

"Fine, fine. Send him up. He'd better not be boring."

All three of them went up after Sherlock said this. When they opened the door to the second floor flat, Sherlock had his back to them. When he turned around, his reaction was so priceless Greg wished he had brought a camera.

Sherlock's eyes immediately zeroed in on John and widened dramatically. Greg had never seen the man speechless, but it appeared that Sherlock's broad vocabulary completely abandoned him in this moment.

John, grinning, dropped his bag and walked over to the gob smacked Sherlock. As John hugged him tightly, one hand ruffling Sherlock's ever-tangled curls, Sherlock's face broke into a wide smile and he reciprocated John's hug.

Greg looked away from this reunion to look at Mrs. Hudson, who now had happy tears running down her face.

When they broke apart, Sherlock looked at John's blackened eye and pulled out his wand, fixing the bruising with a complicated wand movement.

"Sorry you can't find your skull." John said, the grin still on his face. "Want to talk out the case with me?"

Sherlock, looking happier than Greg had seen him for months, said, "You'll do."

 **A/N: We are all Mrs. Hudson.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Author's Note: Kinda short. I thought it was long when I was typing it up on my phone, but it wasn't, oh well. Hope you like it, though! Tell where I can improve, what you think, etc. I own nothing.**

Going back to Afghanistan after his Christmas leave was very difficult. John had to readjust to life in a war zone again when, just a week ago, he had been relaxing in the Baker street flat sipping tea. For the next six months, John worked almost mechanically. Bandaging wounds, prescribing medications, writing and receiving letters from back home. He discovered that a person can get used to anything. Even death and destruction occurring around you all day. This is what John had gotten used to, but that didn't mean it was easy.

John had become quite proficient with a gun after training with the snipers in his outfit for a couple months. He figured, even though he was a doctor, it wouldn't hurt to know how to defend himself without magic.

Bill was of the same opinion, and he joined John at these informal training sessions. In war-torn Afghanistan, any combat training can make a difference.

The days all ran together. Most of the time John didn't know what day of the week it was. But, he would always remember the day when he experienced the worst pain of his life.

That day started normally enough.

"Jesus, it's even hot in here." Bill Murray said, plopping down next to John on his cot. "Who're you writing to? Your girlfriend?" Bill asked, pointing to the letter John was writing.

"Just Sherlock." John responded, folding up the half-finished letter.

"Ah, your boyfriend." Bill said, grinning.

"Ha ha." John laughed sarcastically.

"Just taking the piss." Bill said. "I know Sherlock's not your type."

"Yes, he's male." John said, standing up and grabbing his boots; he had to check on some recovering soldiers in the medical tent.

That afternoon, John and his outfit ventured into the hot desert to scout out an area. When the shooting started, it came with no warning. Gunshots rang out loud and clear and two men in the outfit dropped like stones.

"Get down!" Bill shouted, pulling out his gun and scanning the area for the hidden shooters.

John ran over to the wounded—wounded until officially declared dead—soldiers, opening his field medical bag as he did.

The first soldier John came to had been shot in the leg. He was grimacing in pain, sweat running down his face.

"How bad is it, Watson?" The soldier panted.

"It didn't hit the femoral artery." John said, examining the wound, "I need to make a tourniquet to staunch the bleeding, but you're going to be alright."

John worked fast, moving from one soldier to the next, doing his best to ignore the gunfire surrounding him and focus on the wounded.

As he bandaged a superficial head wound, John saw Bill surreptitiously pull out his wand and Stun the snipers that he could see. The enemy snipers flew backwards when the jet of red light from Bill's wand hit them. John shook his head, exasperated. Bill was a Statute of Secrecy violation waiting to happen. At least he was smart enough to perform the spells nonverbally. When Bill noticed John's eyes on him, Bill winked.

When gunfire rains down on you, time simultaneously speeds up and slows down. It is an experience like no other. John felt the bullet hit him in slow motion. It was like he could sense it coming but was powerless to stop it. The bullet found its target, and all thought was erased from John's head. John gasped in pain and stars filled his vision. His shoulder was on fire; a ripping, stabbing sensation coursed through his upper body.

John blinked and found that he was laying on his back on the hot desert sand. His breathing was rapid and he could feel his heart pounding out of his chest, working hard to replace the blood that he was losing. The gunfire seemed to be dying down, but the fading sound could also be due to the fact that John's senses seemed to be malfunctioning.

The sky was a brilliant blue. The same color as the walls in John's childhood bedroom when the sun hit them just right. A lighter shade than the blue of the bruises his father caused. _Gonna beat you black and blue,_ his father would say drunkenly, already raising a fist to strike his son. Better him than mom, John used to think, as the blows came.

That was before his father went to jail. Before Hogwarts. Before Sherlock.

But, of course, Sherlock knew about his abusive father. He knew the first minute he laid eyes on John because of his stupidly amazing powers of observation. Sherlock...

The thought of his friend helped John find his way out of the delirious haze he had slipped into, and he summoned enough logical thought to lament the fact that he didn't have his wand. The weapon he'd had since he was eleven years old was back in his tent, of no help to anyone.

Suddenly Bill was above him. Bill's hands cupped John's face, his mouth forming words that John couldn't understand.

John felt his remaining strength leaving him. He was so tired.

"Tell Sh'lock I'm sorry." John croaked out. "He'll b-be furious..." He would be. Sherlock had been having the Sherlockian equivalent of a panic attack since John told him he was going to enlist in the army. If John died today all Sherlock's worries would be proven valid.

Bill spoke again and John could hear his voice loud and clear. "No way. You're not going to die, John. Not here. Not now." Bill pressed down hard on John's wound.

John screamed, fatigue leaving him immediately.

"That's right, John. Keep fighting."

John's eyes were watering with pain and stress, but he didn't spend seven years learning to be a Healer to forget what he learned when he really needed it. With the arm that was not bloody and broken, John gestured to Bill's pocket.

"Your wand." John said, throat aching. " _Vulnera Sanantur._ Sh-should stop the bleeding. I-it won't remove the bullet though."

Bill nodded, pulling out his wand. "Okay. Okay. I was always shit at Healing spells back at Hogwarts. Stay with me, John..."

But John was losing the fight with the darkness clouding his vision.

 _I'm sorry, Sherlock,_ John thought as he lost consciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

When the bright, silvery beagle Patronus appeared in Sherlock's living room, Sherlock merely glanced at it from his place on the sofa. Talking Patronuses had become the new method of communication for witches and wizards who needed a consulting Auror, so Sherlock thought this apparition was another possible client.

The Patronus spoke with a male voice Sherlock didn't recognize, "Sherlock, this is Bill Murray."

Sherlock sat up now, for he knew that name. Bill Murray was an acquaintance of John's.

"John's been shot." The beagle continued, " Left shoulder. He's still alive. I'm making sure of it."

The Patronus dissolved having delivered its brief and hasty message. Sherlock couldn't move. Could hardly breathe. One thought had replaced the cacophony of thoughts and deductions that normally filled Sherlock's head _: I'll be fine, I'll be fine, I'll be fine._ John's last words to him before he left for the airport.

Sherlock reached for his wand lying on the table blindly, knocking over a cooling mug of tea and an inkwell as he rummaged without looking. Wand in hand, Sherlock stood up and spun on the spot, disappearing from the living room of Baker Street with a loud crack.

It was only when Sherlock was standing in the middle of Mycroft's dining room—where his brother was entertaining a group of Ministry officials—that he realized he hadn't showered in two days, hadn't combed his wild curls in a week and he was wearing his rumpled blue dressing gown and pajamas.

The light from the several crystal chandeliers seemed very bright after the dim light of 221B and Sherlock looked conspicuously out of place among the high-ranking Ministry officials all dressed in their best and most expensive robes.

Mycroft and his guests turned to look at him. Their lively conversation faded and turned into curious whispers. Mycroft's smile slid off his face.

"Mycroft, it's John." Sherlock heard himself say.

A brief flash of fear in Mycroft's eyes was quickly replaced by a forced smile as he turned to his guests, "Just one moment, please," He said, "I must deal with my little brother." Mycroft's tone of voice was equal parts exasperation and amusement, both of which Sherlock assumed were feigned so as not to worry his Ministry friends. His guests chuckled, reassured. No matter how hard he tried to hide it though, Sherlock could still see some fear in Mycroft's eyes.

Mycroft hastened over to where Sherlock stood and grabbed his arm pulling him gently but insistently out of the room.

Sherlock felt like he was eight years old again, going to his big brother for every problem, naively believing that Mycroft was the best wizard in the world and with a wave of his wand he could fix all of Sherlock's problems.

"What is it?" Mycroft prompted, then muttered, " _Muffliato."_ Ensuring that even the nosiest of the people in the next room wouldn't be able to hear their conversation.

Sherlock spoke in a rush, "It was Bill Murray, another soldier in John's outfit, he sent me a Patronus with a message. John's been shot. Murray didn't offer much information, Patronus messages are very reliable for quick communication, but not for saying all that you need to say due to the necessity of having to keep all messages as brief as possible—"

"Sherlock, you're babbling." Mycroft said.

"I know." Sherlock said, not knowing what else to say. Why had his mental faculties failed him in this crucial moment?

"You're sure this Bill Murray is telling the truth? This could be an elaborate and distasteful prank." Mycroft said.

Sherlock shook his head. "Murray is a friend of John's. He wouldn't joke about John getting injured. I need to go to Afghanistan." Sherlock said and began pacing in an attempt to expel the awful anxiety settling in his stomach.

"Sherlock, you cannot go to Afghanistan. You must be rational." Mycroft said, brow furrowed as he watched Sherlock pace in tight circles.

Sherlock laughed without humor. "Rational? I am being perfectly rational. John is my best friend, John is injured, I am thousands of miles away from my best friend while he is injured, the _rational_ solution to this problem is—"

"No. You are consumed with emotion and you are very far from logical thought, Sherlock. I know how you must be feeling, but—"

Sherlock scoffed, "You have no idea what I'm feeling."

"Sherlock, I—"

"No. You have no idea!" Sherlock stopped pacing and turned to face Mycroft. "You have never had a friend. You find it easy to remain heartless, friendless. I can't go back to that life, I won't."

Mycroft disregarded the venom in his brother's voice and focused on the issue at hand. He was far too used to Sherlock's habit of hiding his insecurities with harshness to take anything Sherlock said when overwhelmed by emotion seriously.

Before Mycroft could say anything else, a flash of silver solidified into a beagle Patronus in between the two of them.

Sherlock focused on the Patronus with an intense gaze as the Patronus began to speak, "He's lost a lot of blood. He's in the operating room now. Will keep you updated."

Even after the Patronus disappeared, Sherlock stared at the place where it had been.

"You can't go running off to Afghanistan." Mycroft said into the silence. "The updates from Mr. Murray will have to be enough until John is deployed home."

Sherlock looked at Mycroft. "How long will that take?" He said, not elaborating further as they both knew he was referring to John's deployment home.

Mycroft knew better than to remind Sherlock that John's survival at this stage wasn't guaranteed. "A couple weeks at the most." Mycroft said with more confidence than he actually felt.

Sherlock took a deep breath, running his hands through his hair agitatedly. He felt like his heart was going to explode with how fast it was beating. His rapid heartbeat and the rolling waves of anxiety in his stomach made a hellish pair; it was hard to believe that not half an hour ago he had been lying on the sofa at Baker Street bored out of his mind. He wasn't bored now.

Mycroft was watching him. "You have to accept that there's nothing you can do, Sherlock."

"I have accepted it, Mycroft, as you can see I'm still here and not in Afghanistan." Sherlock said in a harsh voice.

Mycroft threw caution to the winds, he wanted to reassure his brother as underneath the harshness, Sherlock looked terrified. "It'll be alright, Sherlock. I'll make sure of it."

Sherlock looked at him, eyes bright and vulnerable. He opened and closed his mouth several times, as if unsure of what to say, and finally just nodded.

Sherlock was like a ghost in Mycroft's house for the next week. He wandered around, hardly speaking, clinging to every Patronus update from Bill Murray. Mycroft had never seen his brother like this, worried out of his mind for someone else. John had truly changed something in Sherlock. Had made him more human. If John died now, Mycroft feared the consequences.


	8. Chapter 8

**Author's Note: Very very short. I'm ending it here. Thanks to all who favorited/followed/ and reviewed.**

It was only after two weeks of debilitating pain and sporadic fever that John was told he was being discharged. He knew that it had to happen, but it came as a blow nonetheless. The army had been his life for the better part of three years and now it was all over thanks to one bullet and nerve damage.

Bill visited him in the hospital as often as he could, bringing him news about the rest of their unit and about Sherlock.

Being a modest man, Bill had largely brushed aside John's gratitude, but John still persisted in thanking him every chance he got. He owed Bill his life.

John's shoulder was still recovering when he left Afghanistan for the last time. He sat on the plane, arm in a sling to prevent his shoulder getting jarred, and looked forward to seeing his friends again, especially Sherlock.

John was not the least bit surprised that Sherlock was waiting at the place where the plane's passengers were let out. His sharp eyes watched John's every movement and glanced with particular distaste at John's sling.

Instead of hello, Sherlock said, "You're not going back."

John laughed. "Yeah. I know." He said, then hugged Sherlock with his good arm.

Life went back to normal after that. Or as normal as the life of the only consulting Auror and his Healer can be. John got Sherlock a Pensieve for his birthday that year, for even with Sherlock's infallible memory, he needed to see things from a different perspective in order to solve a case. Sherlock loved it, and devoted an entire cabinet of the kitchen to the bottled memories.

Now and then, the wizards at Baker Street helped a Muggle client. The prospective person would walk in, Sherlock would deduce their life story after barely looking up, and the person would be utterly shocked.

"Oh my God, that was like magic!" They would exclaim.

Sherlock just smiled.


End file.
